


Double Homicide (close to home)

by In_Flagrante_Delicto



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Characters Not Named, F/M, GCPD is corrupt, Gen, Murder, Origin Story, Origin of Batman, not yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:45:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Flagrante_Delicto/pseuds/In_Flagrante_Delicto
Summary: The night of the Wayne Murders. Aka: what immediately follows the death of Martha and Thomas Wayne, written as a descriptive piece.





	Double Homicide (close to home)

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write a descriptive piece for school. The prompt was: “Write a description of a crime scene at a time when the crime has been discovered or when the detective arrives at the scene.” The grammar and spelling have been slightly edited.

The night silences the police sirens as the detective surveys the scene. The child cries. The bodies lay still. In another part of the city, a man runs far, far away.

The detective is new to his job. His hands shake as he approaches the victims. His hair is a dull orange, and a wispy moustache covers his upper lip. He swallows back rising bile, telling himself that he will see worse in this line of work.

The bodies themselves are fairly unremarkable. Two figures, a man and a women. Their right hands bear similar rings. The woman’s curled hair is flattened on the ground, blood seeping into it. The mans suit is ruined, the splattered hole in his chest the obvious cause. Their faces are slack, but their eyes still reflect terror.

A string of pearls lies shattered on the ground. The expensive pearls are slicked with grime from rolling to a stop on the grease slicked ground. Several of the pearls are chipped, their rounded bodies tarnished by the metre-or-so that they fell. The string is broken, snapped, and only a few small pearls remain on it. It has snapped near the clasp, a metal contraption that is engraved with the words “I ❤️ You, Martha”.

A dark haired boy sobs, heartbroken, clutching a single pearl in his blood stained hands. He is not dead, but he is a victim. He sits in the back of a police car, his feet dangling out the open door, his shoulders covered with a metallic blanket. He is in shock, but has the presence of mind to think: ‘We should have gone the long way’. It makes him feel even more guilty.

A policeman, one or two years on the job, stands at the corner of the block. He tries to look unsuspicious, and while he fails, no one looks over to see. A man in a trench coat steps in to him. “Lose the evidence” he grunts. A deposit is paid. A transaction is made. A deal is dealt.

An old fashioned car screeches in. It has broken numerous speeding restrictions, but it is undented, it’s body shiny in the dim light. A man stumbles out. He is old; his hair is a salt-and-pepper gray, his face is wrinkled. He wears a well-waned suit. He almost falls to his knees when the bodies come into view, but he shakes his head to clear it, instead walking stiffly to the boy. They (the boy and the man), do not speak, but they share thousand-yard stares. They have both lost.

A black bag is retrieved from the boot of a police car. Two black (body) bags. In the first is put the man. The bag sticks to the bloody hole in his chest. In the second bag is put the woman. Her dress is no longer a pale blue, grime and blood from the wound in her shoulder and ribs maring it. The bags are the only truly innocent part of this. 

Police sirens ring in the distance. The boys ears ring from the gunshots. The detective sees the bodies when he blinks. The old man hugs the boy. Far, far way, a man falls against a wall. He is hyperventilating. What will his boss think? How will he pay for his wife’s medicine? The police slowly drive away from the crime scene. Their lights are not flashing. Their sirens are silent. The boy cries.

Life goes on.


End file.
